


Stay There

by caras_galadhon (Galadriel)



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Established Relationship, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Painting, Phone Calls & Telephones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-04
Updated: 2013-08-04
Packaged: 2017-12-22 07:04:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/910326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galadriel/pseuds/caras_galadhon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Viggo's attempts to spend a quiet day painting are thwarted by the phone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stay There

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://sons-of-gondor.livejournal.com/profile)[**sons_of_gondor**](http://sons-of-gondor.livejournal.com/)'s _Merchandising and the Actor_ Challenge, and posted in (belated) celebration of Viggo's 45th Birthday. Many thanks to both of my Wicked beta-ing Sisters, [](http://gotham-syren.livejournal.com/profile)[**gotham_syren**](http://gotham-syren.livejournal.com/) and [](http://savageseraph.livejournal.com/profile)[**savageseraph**](http://savageseraph.livejournal.com/), to [](http://lannamichaels.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://lannamichaels.livejournal.com/)**lannamichaels** for last minute advice, and to Slyspidertoo for uttering the words that fed the bunny.

Viggo sighed, dropping his brush in turpentine as the phone rang. Clearly he wasn't going to be allowed to get anything done today. He only hoped that this time it was a telemarketer, slipping under the unlisted net, randomly dialling numbers, someone he could tell off with relative anonymity. _Enough with the phone calls. I should have unplugged the damn thing, got myself an unlisted unlisted number, given it out only to homeless people and hobos. People without quarters._ He laughed, a short barking counterpoint to the incessant jingling of the phone, as it occurred to him that he'd always been the one handing out handfuls of quarters, dimes, dollars, packing them in among sandwiches and cups of coffee. _Yeah, that wasn't going to work._

He scrubbed distractedly at his nose, leaving a smear of wetness behind. _Shit._ It felt like burnt sienna. Or maybe just plain old orange. Viggo grabbed for a rag and the receiver, tucking the now paint-spotted phone up against his ear as he wiped off his fingers. "Hello?"

"I saw you the other day."

He snickered, his mood suddenly much improved. _Doesn't even bother to announce himself. But,_ he supposed, _it isn't really necessary anymore, is it?_ "Did you?"

"Yeah. Was out with the girls. Went to see some movie. Something about fish. Animated. Very... colourful."

"Ah. So you saw the _Hidalgo_ trailer, did you? What did you think? I've been thinking about buying Hidalgo himself..."

There was no disguising the amusement that rolled off Sean, ran down the phone line, tickled Viggo's ear. "If you're not careful, you're going to have to turn in your actor card and start running a dude ranch, you know that? Forever buying your co-stars."

"I couldn't buy you, could I? Bring you here, keep you stabled up at night, let you roam, graze in the morning, ride you hard every afternoon." He closed his eyes, smiled at the thought of Sean under him, naked, sweating and swearing, hips bucking up, pushing him deeper. He wondered, idly, what burnt sienna would look like smeared across Sean's back, fingerprints, handprints, streaks of paint where he'd gripped and caressed him.

"Rides are free, mate, you know that."

He blinked, bringing himself back to himself and the sound of Sean's voice miles and miles away. "Oh?"

"Well, just for you. Everyone else? My prices are negotiable." He paused, and Viggo could picture the slight curl of Sean's lips as he spoke. "...But no, I didn't see the trailer. The previews were mostly bland faff, and some new remake of another one of those body-switching flicks. And not in the fun Donald Sutherland B-movie type way. More along the lines of those bloody Yankee After School Specials with a better budget."

"Get to the point, Sean." If he didn't stop him now, they'd be stuck on the phone all day, and Viggo didn't relish the thought of feeling paint dry, crack and flake off his face. "You saw me, you said."

"Egotistical bastard, aren't you? I'm getting to it." There was a little static as something brushed against the receiver. "Yeah, I saw you. About halfway through the film I was informed that I had unfairly eaten all the popcorn, and if I was a good father, I'd go back out to the concession stand and get some more. Was just as well. All that sloshing water was making me feel vaguely seasick. Anyway, I grabbed the popcorn, turned around, and there you were."

"There I was."

"There you were. Large as life. Larger. Dressed to the nines, staring down the theatre, gripping Anduril with both hands. Looks like you actually washed your hair, too."

"Oh. _The poster._ Yeah. It looks all right." It had been a tiring shoot, the commercial photographer looking for a specific shot rather than letting inspiration flow. Hours of repeating one pose after another, breaking for touch-ups, swallows of water, refusing lunch just to get the damn thing over and done with. Nowhere near the headspace he was so used to inhabiting with Aragorn. "They were going for 'kingly'. Wanted me to look like I was determined to become leader of the Free Peoples."

"Is that what they were looking for? Don't know if that's what they got, Viggo. And I don't know that I like what you gave them either." Sean's voice held an edge of warning, momentarily confusing Viggo. _Why the hell would he get in a knot over a damn poster?_ "Thought it was the way you looked at _me,_ not the whole movie-going public."

"Oh yeah, that." He coloured a bit, grateful Sean couldn't see the blush, and was dimly aware that the redness creeping into his cheeks did nothing but clash with the smear of paint on his nose. "Karl called, told me the boys were referring to it as the 'fuck me' look."

"Um, no. I speak from experience here. That's your 'Stay there and I'll come over and fuck you' look."

"Ah, I see." Viggo shifted a bit, suddenly uncomfortable in the harsh, bright light of the overheads, all too warm, too flushed, too suffused with wanting, _needing._ A very tiny idea prickled at the back of his mind and he nudged it, curious to see where it would lead.

He could hear the quiet exhalation of breath as Sean sighed. Viggo mused that if he strained just a little bit more, he could probably hear him rolling his eyes. "You're losing your edge if that's all you can come up with, Viggo. That's the best you can do?"

"No." Of course it wasn't. Viggo smiled as the idea grew legs, wandered around his head, as it began making lists, rearranging schedules. It wouldn't be too hard to pull off. Henry was staying with Christine, and he was enjoying a little bit of lag time between projects. All he'd need to do would be to ship a couple canvases--

"Well?" Sean broke into his thoughts, grumbling good-naturedly at the lengthening silence. "Spit it out then, o' Kingly one."

_Yes, it could work._ "Stay there," he drawled, savouring the words, "and I'll come over and fuck you."

Sean didn't miss a beat. "Plane ticket's in the mail. See you in a week?"

"Less if I can swing it."

"Good." There was a satisfied click as Sean severed their connection. The dial tone, buzzing in Viggo's ear, sounded entirely too smug, too self-satisfied.

He hung up the phone and turned back to his painting. _Dammit, so that's what the man had been driving for. Should have known._ No one but Sean -- and Christine in her day -- knew just how to draw Viggo in, line him up, massage a predictable response right out of him. Nobody else. He picked up a brush and examined the canvas. A quick dip to coat the bristles, and then he was holding it out, elbow crooked, head cocked, waiting.

Eight minutes and twenty-seven seconds later he found himself still standing in the same position, staring at nothing, thinking.

_Stay there and I'll come over and fuck you._

Chuckling softly, he ducked his head, glanced downward and was less than surprised to see new droplets of paint on his floor. The offending brush went directly into the turpentine, knocked against the one he'd tossed there before answering the phone.

It was easy enough to crouch, to wipe up the spatters with the rag in his hand. Easier still to dip the cloth in the paint, wipe the wetness across his fingers, his palm.

_Stay there._

A moment later he was raking his fingers across the painting, feeling the textured layers sliding underneath his hand.

He stepped back. The orange smears stood out in sharp relief against a wash of cream and gold. _Perfect._ He left it to dry, very carefully wiping his fingers clean, as he went to pack his suitcase.


End file.
